


Advent XXV

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Christmas, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems right for this one to land on the 25th Advent story.</p><p>Sherlock and Mycroft are difficult--but sometimes they can be sweet, and in accord.</p><p>The group prepares to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special, along with other assorted Christmas fare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XXV

“You’ve got a telly?”

“’Course I’ve got a telly,” Mycroft growled, as he heaved at his end of the sofa. He and the men of the party were returning the women’s earlier favor, rearranging the furniture in the Great Hall, angling it so the tree was to one side and the sofas and chairs formed an arch with the fireplace behind them, and a magnificent HD tv in front.

“Why do you have a telly?” Sherlock asked. “You don’t watch.”

“I watch.” Mycroft snipped. Then, ruefully, added, “Well. Not much. But _some_ things are important.”

Sherlock raised one dark brow.

Mycroft jutted his chin. “I like BBC 2 documentaries,” he said, “And someone has to watch BBC Parliament to justify its existence.”

“And the Doctor,” Lestrade called from his end of another sofa, with John and Father managing the middle and the other end. “Can’t forget the Doctor.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but smirked. “I think that would go without saying,” he said. “Under the circumstances…”

Lestrade chuckled with manic glee. “I love the Christmas Special,” he said. “This one looks sooo good. I can’t wait.”

“Well you’ll have to hold out a few more hours,” Mycroft said, blending frustration and affection. “Listen to the nice music, now, and when the furniture’s set you can pop in ‘Christmas Carol’ while you wait.”

“Eeeee. Flying sharks,” Lestrade chortled.

“Yes, dear. Flying sharks.” Mycroft caught the disbelieving look Sherlock was sending his way, and glowered back. “What? He likes the Doctor…he’s a man of taste and refinement.”

“If he were he’d not be walking out with you,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft almost replied, paused, and then said, with mixed amusement and satisfaction, “We are both blessed in the tolerance of our associates.”

“I’m not…” Sherlock stopped. Then he started chattering, mile-a-minute, nerves skittering far more obviously than he’d have liked. “Really, Mike, you’re proving to be a complete prat about Christmas, one would almost think you a sentimentalist, but, no, that ‘s not possible, not the man who’s always poo-pooed the entire holiday, not the man who resists any kind of celebration, not the man who lurks alone over the holidays sipping scotch and brooding by the fire, no, this hospitable host and fluttering Christmas enthusiast can’t possibly be the British Government—unless, perhaps, something has altered his attitude. Can we deduce anything? A certain care given to clothing of a less formal nature than is normally worn, perhaps? And attentive additions of elements never seen previously in Holmes Christmases—like watching the Christmas specials. And did I notice a DVD of ‘The Snowman’ in the pile?”

“It’s for Little Em,” Mycroft said, nose in the air. “And don’t deduce me.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll deduce you back.”

“There’s nothing to deduce,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m an open book.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft said.

“Here come the sharks!” Lestrade shouted. Then, when everyone looked at him, he said, “What? That’s what this track is—it’s when the flying sharks come in ‘Christmas Carol.’”

Mycroft shook his head and sighed, but didn’t look all that annoyed. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.” He looked at the array of sofas. “Let’s get the chairs sorted, now. And cushions—we want some big cushions and bolsters for anyone who wants to sit on the floor.”

“Here, come help me find those, then,” Sherlock said.

“No, you can manage that,” Mycroft said. “I’ll—“

“I could _use_ your _help_ ,” Sherlock growled, eyes boring in.

Mycroft frowned, but nodded slightly. “Yes. Of course. You need my help. By all means…”

Sherlock nodded tersely, and swept out, waving one hand in casual dismissal. “The rest of you finish setting up.”

“Sieg heil!” John barked back, all sark and stroppy amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lestrade said. “Bring us back some booze when you come. Now’s a good time to get a little bit going before we start watching. An’ don’t forget the popcorn and the chestnuts you’ve got for us,” he added.

“Popcorn?” Sherlock said, as the two brothers loped up the front stairway. “Chestnuts?”

“Oh, behave,” Mycroft said. “It’s just food. There’s also going to be ginger nuts and shortbread, and cheese and savory biscuits. Just things to nibble while we watch telly and wait for the proper feast.”

Sherlock shot his brother a sidewise glance, and shook his head. “Love has made a marshmallow of you, Mike.”

Mycroft huffed and grumbled and refused to comment further, instead saying, “Where are you going? We could be collecting the cushions from the window seat.”

“On the way back,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to give you an extra present while Mummy wasn’t watching.”

Mycroft raised his brows in arch surprise. “Something our mother can’t see?”

Sherlock smirked. “You’ll be grateful for my tact.” When they reached his room, he ducked in the door, and returned with a large wrapped box. “If you can deduce it, you may want to leave it wrapped till Mummy’s gone.”

Mycroft took the box, hefted it once, and snorted. “More likely I’ll open it later and go down to smoke one on the terrace after she’s gone to bed,” he said. “Brand?”

“B&H,” Sherlock said. “Filtered. _Low tar._ ”

Mycroft snorted. “Yes, yes. I confess, I’m a lightweight.”

“Hardly. But you can’t hack the good stuff.”

“More to the point, I do hack it.”

“That too.”

Mycroft smiled, holding the box. He cocked his head, then. “I’m afraid I’ve already given you yours. But…” He considered, then, bashfully, said, “But see if you can deduce this, as a ‘thank you’ treat.” He slipped a small, flat box out of his pocket, wrapped in gold paper with a subtle embossed baroque acanthus-leaf pattern. There was a deep red ribbon tied taut and flat diagonally over the corners, but no bow. He placed it carefully and precisely in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock frowned, and hefted it lightly.

“Too small to be much but jewelry or a similarly small object,” he said. “It could be a ring—but the shape isn’t that of a standard ring-box, nor is a ring heavy enough. Nor, if it’s for whom I expect, is it likely to be worn. He’s done the ring-thing once already and it was a bust.” He hefted it. “No. Heavier than a ring.” He let his hand roll, subtly, finding the balance points, testing the subtleties of gravity’s cues. “Ah. Pocket watch?”

Mycroft nodded, eyes amused. “Well done, you. More guesses?”

“Definitely a chain with.” Sherlock hefted it again. “Solid, heavy chain. I can feel it shift, though I think you’ve pinned it down with cotton batting.”

“Mmmmm? And?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Old. Gold. Too heavy and too large to be anything but—it’s not one of your modern pocket watches, unless you’ve spent the money for a commissioned reproduction.”

“Mmmm. I’m saving that idea for another year.”

“So…this year’s something special in its own right.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “Oh. Grandfather’s watch?”

“Well done, brother-mine.”

Sherlock drew in a slow breath. Then he let it leak softly out of him. “So. I’m to gain a new brother?”

“In one sense or another,” Mycroft said, softly. “If he’ll have me.”

Sherlock looked at him, and smiled. “He will,” he said, adding nothing more.

“Do you…approve?”

Sherlock snorted. “God, Mike—you’re asking _my_ approval? Not Mummy or Father’s?”

“They don’t work with him. They’re not his friends.”

Sherlock considered, rolling the ideas over in his mind. At last he nodded. “Logical. Then—yes. I approve.”

Mycroft smiled—a small smile, but radiant, and one that reached his eyes in a way far too many of his tight, awkward smiles never did. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” Sherlock said, handing the box back. “Keep it safe, now.”

“I will,” Mycroft said, slipping the box into his pocket. “I do hope he says yes.”

“He will.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“It can be deduced.”

“Mmmmm.” Mycroft was querulous and fretful.

“I’m convinced.”

Mycroft nodded, and veiled the worry behind hooded lids. “Yes. Well….”

“Go,” Sherlock said, briskly. “Go put that box where Mummy won’t spot it. I don’t trust her not to guess just from the shape and size.”

“Nor do I,” Mycroft said, ruefully. “And then were would we be?”

“We’d be up to the part where I assure Mummy you were giving them to me, with every intention of corrupting my virgin lungs,” Sherlock said, chipper and sarky.

“Yes. You would, too,” Mycroft said, in rueful disapproval. He huffed, then, and smiled. “I’ll bring back the bed bolsters when I come. See you downstairs. Bring your own bolsters and all the window-seat cushions you can manage, and I’ll try for the rest when I come back down.”

He turned and headed down the hall. It took Sherlock a few moments to place the carol his brother was humming, and when he did, he shook his head in sudden, amused affection.

“Don’t worry so much,” he called down the way, and laughed at Mycroft’s hand rising as if in irked surrender. Still, the other man kept humming…and Sherlock found himself picking up the lyric, singing along as he collected his pillows and loped back down the stairs. By the time he was back in the Great Hall he was belting out, “And I wonder as I wander” at full force, fighting the edgy tune of the Doctor Who Christmas Carol CD.

“For the love of God, would you shut it, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted over the racket. “Gawd, what a caterwauling!”

Sherlock smirked, but fell silent.

He considered ruining his brother’s proposal by blabbing—or, better yet, hinting deviously. He chose not to—just as he’d chosen not to tell his brother that his certainty was not so much “deduced” as it was direct knowledge of the small box Lestrade was keeping, filled with a ring he’d chosen only days before with Sherlock’s help and advice.

Sherlock sighed and smiled, then, and called for the women to join them, grabbing a vast oversized chair in which he rather hoped he could convince Janine to join him. Dear, obnoxious, fretful, overbearing, idiot Mike….as if Lestrade’s answer wasn’t obvious.

And as the Doctor Who music was turned off, and the DVD was slipped into the player, his mind continued to run the lyrics….

_If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing_

_A star in the sky or a bird on the wing_

_Or all of the Angels in heaven to sing,_

_He surely could have had it, ‘cause he was the King!_

Idiot Mike…The British Government, who could have had anything—but wanted Sherlock’s DI…

 

 **Nota Bene:** The group are preparing to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special—but that won’t be for a few hours. In the meantime they are going to watch some of the older Doctor Who specials, along with other Christmas classics. They’ve got “The Snowman” in the pile, and probably some other goodies, including Blackadder’s Christmas special.

Mike is going to come down soon, though, and make them watch to the Queen’s Message first. It’s about to air…

Music:

[The soundtrack of the Doctor Who Christmas Carol](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkcXT3VlxM8&index=29&list=PLSrrMzDFHEl2Tv8eDKHEi9ckaGd-KXZfp)

[I Wonder as I Wander](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvADhdoQ8n0)

That last is an American carol that blends a bit of authentic Appalachian material with the compositional and lyric skills of American folk musician and archivist, John Jacob Niles. It’s a lovely, tetchy, itchy thing, with aching [lyrics,](http://www.oldielyrics.com/christmas/i_wonder_as_i_wander.html) and deserves to be even better known…though it’s been fairly widely distributed since the 60s.


End file.
